


Northern Daughters and Southron Temptations

by framboise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual Female Character, F/F, F/M, In which Jon is raised at court as a prince, Marriage, Multi, POV Alternating, Polyamory, Possessive Behavior, Romance, Seduction, Threesome - F/F/M, Wedding Night, and he and Daenerys decide to steal Sansa from the north
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-14 15:32:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14139039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framboise/pseuds/framboise
Summary: Sansa is supposed to be betrothed to the heir of an old northern house, to marry a coarse northerner with rough hands and clumsy manners.She is not supposed to fall in love with a perfumed southron prince who wears silks and keeps his beard oiled and soft lest he scratch the tender cheeks of his ladylove.Nor is she supposed to fall in love with his wife.





	Northern Daughters and Southron Temptations

**Author's Note:**

> Background to this story: Rhaegar married Lyanna without divorcing Elia. Jon was raised at court after Lyanna died. Jaime still killed Aerys but Robert's Rebellion was defeated. Rhaegar and Elia are the current king and queen and Aegon is the crown prince.
> 
> Jon, Sansa, and Daenerys are in their late teens in this story.
> 
> and if you want visuals, I made a graphic [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/172447845302/sansa-is-supposed-to-be-betrothed-to-the-heir-of)

 

Sansa is supposed to be betrothed to some stolid fur-cloaked first son of an old northern house. This is what she has been told since she was a babe, and what she has tried to turn her dreams of the future towards.

Her husband will have a rough beard, she thinks, he will wear thick leathers and furs, and his boots will be forever brushed with mud. He will fight with a broadsword, begrudgingly bend the knee to the south, and down flagons of ale during feasts. His hands will be rough, his manner somewhat coarse; he will have no time for southron fripperies like songs and courtly pleasures; he will expect her to wear thick woolen gowns that she sews herself; to be thrifty; to have many strong sons and to face each cold, wet day with a pleasant smile.

But Sansa has secret dreams that she cannot unloose from her heart. She dreams of a southron husband, a prince, who wears soft silks, who perfumes his beard and knows all the songs and dances. He fights at the lists and with a longsword like Dark Sister that he spins quick as lightning. He is comely, and his hands are gentle. He buys her beautiful gowns, brings her sweet lemon cakes and trinkets just to make her smile, and they live in the warm halls of a southron palace where it hardly ever rains, where food is plentiful and refined merriment is had each evening, where they drink wine and not beer, eat spiced meats and not thin broths, ride Dornish sand steeds, and stroll through colourful markets and the grand halls of the Red Keep.

She is wrong to dream of these things, she knows, spoilt and ungrateful for everything she has. Her sister Arya chafes at her own restrictions in the north but finds a place for herself, charming everyone with her rambuctious ways, turning the heads of northern sons when she rides her horse around the courtyard of Winterfell and goes on hunts with her bow and arrow. Why can Sansa not be more like her?

Sansa's parents will not let her marry a cruel man, they will not force her to marry anyone at all, but she knows that a northerner would be the only acceptable husband for both her family and the north itself. The very thought of her marrying a southroner is like a lit match to the kindling of the north's grudge against Rhaegar for stealing away their favourite daughter, for Lyanna being misused, for her dying so young. And no amount of recompense by the crown, no amount of men and riches sent to the Wall or advantageous trade agreements, will be enough to rid the north of its simmering enmity for that perfumed prince who seduced dear Lyanna.

Ned does not speak of her, and neither does he speak of Jaehaerys who it is said is sometimes called Jon in honour of his mother. Jaehaerys has never been invited to visit the north and Sansa cannot fathom why, if they loved Lyanna so much. But her mother says she simply cannot understand the way that Lyanna's abduction broke all their hearts, the damage that was done. It would hurt them to see Jaehaerys, Catelyn says, it would be an insult for the son of Rhaegar to visit.

Sansa has heard that he looks like Lyanna, that he is dark and pale, which makes it easy for her to glance at the young men who visit Winterfell and imagine that they are the prince instead, their leathers turned to silken tunics, their unruly beards to carefully groomed facial hair.

If she could only visit the Red Keep once, perhaps she would be satisfied then, perhaps the southron princes and noblemen would be disappointing, would be just as pampered and louche as the north say they are, dishonourable and arrogant and ugly.

Sansa is a few years older than others of her peers who are already married, and she feels the pressure of remaining as yet unbetrothed, but everyone knows how carefully she is treated by her family, how precious she is to them.

Not precious enough to get her wish to marry a southroner, she thinks darkly, one bright summer morning as she walks through the forest, having snuck out of the keep early, trying to ignore the feast that is going to occur tonight, the young men she will be expected to dance with, their heavy feet squashing her toes, their breath stinking of ale. To make matters worse, just this past moon they have learned that Jaehaerys has married his aunt Daenerys and all Sansa's silly dreams of being a princess have been dashed - for Aegon married Margaery Tyrell last year, and everyone knows that Viserys is too mad to marry, that he is kept in a luxurious cell at Dragonstone so that he can do no harm to himself or others.

On sunny days, the forests outside of Winterfell look pleasant and green, ripe with life, but a pleasant forest is not enough for Sansa, she wants palaces.

She stops by a tree and leans against it, sighing distemperedly.

And then she stares up at the canopy above her, listening to the sound of something large, something strange, flying overhead. She follows the sound of its wings as it speeds away from her, jumping over roots and ducking branches, heart thumping in her chest, and when the ground shakes with the beast landing somewhere ahead, she smiles and races onwards.

The dragon is gone by the time she reaches the outskirts of the clearing, ducking behind a thick tree trunk to spy the owners of the voices that ring out: a comely man with dark hair in a neat bun, wearing rich clothes of red and black; and a woman a little shorter than him, with silver hair and a gown of blue silk so fine it almost makes Sansa want to cry.

Truthfully, she knew who she might come across when she heard the dragon flying above her - for there are only three dragons and three dragon riders: Aegon, Rhaenys, and Daenerys - and though she is sad not to get her first glimpse at a dragon, for they only very rarely fly north, she is more than thrilled to see royalty in the flesh.

The couple in the clearing in front of her are Daenerys and her husband, Jaehaerys. Sansa looks at them greedily as they stand together and talk - the soft way he touches her cheek, the devoted gaze of the princess upon her husband, the sly tease she makes, too quiet for Sansa to hear, and how it has Jaehaerys laughing delightedly, throwing his head back.

Sansa is so busy watching them that she does not realise that she is inching closer, and that her foot is about to slip from its perch on a root, but when the prince and princess look around for a path to follow, and Sansa tries to lean back out of sight, she trips instead, falling in a heap, half in and half out of a bush.

Her cheeks burn as she looks up to see the two of them striding over. Jaehaerys had his hand at the sword he wore until he saw her properly and now he is smiling easily.

"Can I help you, my lady?" he asks, in a soft voice, "for you appear to be tangled up in foliage."

"There is no need, my prince," Sansa says, flushing and feeling so embarrassed she could die as she tries to stand up and right herself.

"Here, I shall help," Daenerys says, "it is embarrassing to fall thus in front of a prince, is it not? My husband does not always understand our maidenly blushes," she adds, smiling so kindly that Sansa blushes even more. Daenerys is beautiful up close, her skin pale, her eyes a bewitching violet. She is shorter than Sansa, and her teats are small but she looks stronger, curvier too. Sansa can see why Jaehaerys fell in love with her, why he married his aunt even though such things are somewhat frowned upon in Westeros.

"Thank you, my princess," Sansa says, taking her soft little hand and pulling herself free of the bush, brushing the leaves and twigs that have attached themselves to her, cursing herself for appearing so untidy, so poor, in front of royalty.

"Do you have a name, my lady?" Jaehaerys asks. "My name is Jon, but I am sometimes known as Jaehaerys, and this is my ladywife, Daenerys."

Sansa curtseys.

"She knew who we were," Daenerys says to Jon, teasingly, "she's not foolish. She heard the dragon, didn't you?" she asks, turning to Sansa.

"I did, my princess."

"Please, call me Daenerys, and your name...?" she trails off hopefully.

"Sansa," Sansa says, blushing again, "Lady Sansa Stark."

"Lady Sansa, of course," the princess says, "for who else would have hair like yours. It is the colour of flame, don't you think, Jon?"

"It is indeed. Beautiful, my lady, there are none at court who have its shade."

Sansa will keep this moment forever in her memory, Jon saying her hair is _beautiful_ , as he stands there looking so handsome and regal, in his Targaryen colours, with his smouldering eyes and full lips.

"I suppose you wish to know why we have appeared thus in your forest," Daenerys says. "Truthfully, we were bored-"

"-you were bored," Jon corrects, his mouth twitching at the corner, his hand stroking his wife's shoulder. He turns to Sansa. "I am a new husband, it is true, but I cannot think that it is right to leave one's wife feeling bored and not offer amusements to help."

Sansa tries very hard not to let out a quiet sigh at this display of courtly manners.

"You would be welcome at Winterfell, should you wish to break your fasts and rest a while. There is a feast tonight and our stores are quite full," Sansa says and then curses herself inwardly. Even if they were not having a feast, Winterfell would still have food and drink to give the prince and princess. She herself would personally starve for several days so that they could be fed.

"We would not wish to impose, Sansa," Jon says. "A visit like that should be heralded with ravens and organised far in advance so that no prides are bruised." Does he look sad as he says this, is he sorrowful that he has never visited his mother's home? Sansa cannot tell.

"If we could beg your company for a few hours," Daenerys says, "and if you could show us if there is a lake somewhere, or a pretty stream to sit beside, that would suit us very well."

"I would be honoured to do so," Sansa says and she smiles in response to their easy grins.

She leads them through the forest towards a pool where she had once swam as a girl, far enough away from Winterfell to rarely ever get visitors.

"It is so quiet and peaceful here," Daenerys remarks, touching the mossy trunk of a tree. "The forests near King's Landing are not as tranquil as this one."

They come to a large tree that has fallen across the path and the prince hops up on it and then holds out his hand to help his wife over. Once she is on the other side, he reaches for Sansa to help her too. Sansa feels herself warm at the touch of his hand on hers; he has the same sword-fighting calluses that every man has but they have been softened somehow and do not scratch her skin.

When they reach the pool, Daenerys declares it utterly charming, and Sansa is pleased.

Jon immediately bends down at the edge of the pool to drink from it and then he sits back on his heels. "Would you be terribly offended were I to remove some of these clothes and wade into its waters, Sansa?" he asks. "It was warm on the back of Goldenwing today."

"Not at all. Many people have used this pool for swimming before," she says and then stands rooted to the spot as he unties his jerkin and tugs it off and then bends to take off his boots.

"Come sit by me, Sansa," Daenerys calls out, removing her slippers and putting her feet into the water.

Sansa settles next to her and tries not to let her eyes glance towards the prince who has now shucked down to his smallclothes and bared his muscular legs. She bites her lip on an involuntary noise as he strips off his fine silken tunic to reveal a well-formed chest and strong arms. He is not wiry like the men of the north, he is well-fed and firm, and her eyelashes flutter at the very thought of being held by him, of resting her head against his chest—

The splash of his entry into the pool brings her out of her daydream.

Daenerys laughs as Jon pops out of the water and shakes his head, droplets of water flying everywhere, and he smiles indulgently at his wife.

"Will you not join me? Daenerys? Sansa?" he calls.

"Oh all right then," Daenerys says, standing up.

Sansa watches in disbelief as the princess strips to her flimsy undershift and wades into the pool to join her husband, the water soaking up into the cloth so that Sansa can soon see that she wears no smallclothes underneath and that her teats are firm, her nipples small and pink.

Sansa feels her cheeks heat. Gods, the two of them are so very handsome. If all those at court look like this then she is certain she would fall in love with everyone.

She watches as Jon swims up to his wife and kisses her shoulder and then her cheek, stroking her wet hair back from her face. And then they turn to Sansa and she feels pinned by their gazes.

"You look like some forest spirit sitting there with the green of the woods behind you and your red hair," Jon remarks.

"I think it is you two who look like water spirits," Sansa replies boldly.

Daenerys smiles and tips her head back underwater to wet her hair which barely darkens. "Do you not wish to swim today?" she asks Sansa.

"My clothes are heavier than yours and would not dry in time to return home," she says, when really it is that she is too shy. "But I shall put my feet in the water," she decides, tugging off her boots. She reaches her hands under her skirts to peel down her stockings, aware that she has not turned away from the two of them, that she is in some way inviting them to look at her. Less than an hour in their company and she has already become a slattern, just as her mother had warned.

The cool of the pool makes her shiver when she slides her legs into it, her skirts hiked up around her thighs. No man has seen her legs bare since she was a child and the only other man who will after this shall be her husband.

Jon swims over to the grassy bank close to her and leans his arms on its side. Daenerys glides up behind him and rests her head on his shoulder. The two of them look like some tapestry or illumination from a songbook, her silver hair and his dark curls, her small hand on his muscled arm.

"I fear that we have been very rude indeed, Sansa, to demand you show us a pool to swim in, without thinking of your other obligations. Will you be missed this morning?" the prince asks.

"Oh, no," she replies. "The keep will be busy preparing for tonight's feast and I shall only be in the way as the servants carry everything to and fro. I have already done my part, I have helped to gather flowers and greenery for the hall, baked cakes with the cook, and sewed gowns for my mother and sister." Her voice is halting, she knows that no southron lady of the court would do such things, would get her hands dirty.

"I noticed the embroidery on your sleeves," Daenerys says. "Did you sew that yourself? I had assumed it was the work of some accomplished seamstress."

"I did," Sansa says, touching the swirls of golden thread she had begged from her father and which she had unpicked from a gown that grew too small for her.

"You are very talented," Daenerys says.

"Thank you. I think it is only because I have many hours to practise. Life in the north is quiet and modest, we do not have visiting singers or grand gatherings, only feasts now and then."

"I imagine without a city, there are no parades or colourful markets either."

"No, there aren't," Sansa says ruefully.

"It is true that King's Landing offers many diversions. You must think me very spoilt indeed to say that I was bored this morning."

"You should visit us in King's Landing," Jon says before Sansa can decide what would be polite to reply. "Let us repay the favour and show you the splendors of the Red Keep."

"Oh, I should like nothing more," Sansa says, clutching her hands in her skirts. "But I'm not sure my parents would agree."

"They are not fond of the south," Jon says knowingly.

"They think it best I remain in the north," Sansa replies diplomatically.

"Such a shame. The halls of the Red Keep would suit you, my lady, a beauty like you would do well at court."

"Do you have a betrothed?" Daenerys asks, climbing out of the pool, her undershift moulded to her skin so that Sansa can see everything.

Her mouth feels quite dry when she replies, "Not yet."

Daenerys lays herself down on the soft grass, stretching out her limbs in the sun. It must be true that the Targaryens have warm blood, for Sansa would only shiver if she lay about in wet clothes.

"How old are you?" Daenerys asks.

"I am nineteen," she replies, her voice trailing off as Jon climbs out of the pool too and her eyes get caught on his thighs and, as he turns around, his round backside. Her breath stutters for a moment.

"There is still time yet to find the right man, then," Jon says, settling on the grass in between her and Daenerys, sitting with his arms around his knees. Sansa is trying not to gawp at all his bare skin, at Daenerys's languid form behind him, the way the princess has tilted her head towards the sun.

"I hope so," Sansa says. As if any man might compare to this handsome prince, she thinks mournfully.

"I had many women paraded in front of me over the years, but none could compare to Daenerys," Jon says, brushing a hand down his wife's cheek.

"Whereas I strongly considered many proposals from men far more handsome than Jon before I gave into his wheedling," Daenerys teases.

"Outrageous," Jon says, smiling and shaking his head at his wife. "You see how marriage has not softened her wicked tongue, Sansa, you see what I have to live with." He sighs wearily and falls back on the grass, trapping Daenerys's hand under his back as she yelps and squirms.

Sansa laughs at the both of them. They are like puppies, she thinks. She lifts her legs from the water and stretches them out on the grass. She hardly ever sees her skin under sunlight like this and she marvels at several tiny moles she has never spotted before. When she looks up again she finds the both of them watching her, their eyes slitted with pleasure at the warmth of the sun. No, she corrects, they are like baby dragons, and she hides her smile behind her hand as she leans across to retrieve her stockings.

"Is that your embroidery too?" Jon asks, reaching to touch the little birds that Sansa has sewn on the ribbons at the top.

"Yes," she says, blushing at the sight of his hand touching the fabric of her stockings.

"It's pretty," he says, eyes flicking up to hers, smiling warmly.

"Jon likes the sight of stockings on a woman but I find it too warm in King's Landing to wear them," Daenerys says and then props herself up on her elbows, the shape of her teats outlined by her damp shift. "My apologies if I am too familiar with you, Sansa. If I embarrass you with such talk."

"Oh no," Sansa says, fumbling with her stockings but not turning away as she slides them up her legs, revelling in their attention.

"I feel as if we are already good friends, is that odd to say?" Daenerys continues.

"Not at all. Your company, both your company, has been so pleasant. I have enjoyed this so much," Sansa says, feeling her tongue loosen. If she is never to see them again after today, if this is all some wondrous dream, then why not be honest. "My sister is happy to spend her time with our brothers, to race them on her horse, to practise with her bow and clamber through the forest. I prefer gentler pursuits but there are few others who do. All of my childhood friends are married now, and living in their own keeps and houses. And when I marry I shall have no ladies-in-waiting." She smiles tremulously. "My mother tells me that I will have little time for daydreaming once I have children. My brothers say that I like songs too much, that I believe that life should be just like them."

"Which songs do you like best?" Jon asks softly.

She tells them and they spend the next half an hour speaking of songs and romantic tales, and Sansa feels her heart ache with the kinship she feels with them, the sadness that she is never to meet their like again.

When Goldenwing appears in the distance above the treetops and they announce that they must leave to journey back south, she feels sadder still.

At least until Daenerys says, "We shall have to visit you again, Sansa, and soon, don't you agree, Jon?"

"Indeed," Jon replies, doing up the last of the ties on his jerkin. "Next week, perchance?"

"I should like that more than anything," Sansa says, trying not to look too wild in her eagerness.

"Good," Jon smiles, and lifts Sansa's hand to kiss it, as she does her best not swoon, "that's good, my lady. And perhaps we can take you up on dragonback and whisk you away somewhere on Goldenwing. If we meet you early enough perhaps we might even have an hour in Braavos."

"Oh, that would be wonderful," Sansa says, toes curling in her boots. The idea of riding a dragon is quite frightening, but not if she is sitting between the prince and princess. She should like the idea of that, of being held by them on top of a dragon.

She watches as they climb on the back of Goldenwing, and then she holds onto a tree trunk as the dragon takes flight, the gusts of its wings making her eyes water as she tips her head back and watches them disappear into the sky.

She slumps against the tree and laughs in joyful disbelief at her extraordinary day and then, noticing the time by the angle of the sun, she hurries back to Winterfell through the quiet forest. So what if she has to dance with northern sons tonight, she thinks, she has spent the morning with a prince and princess, she will spend a day next week with them too, and gods, if only the hours could speed up and she was with them again.

 

**

 

"You like her, don't you," Daenerys murmurs into Jon's ear as she sits next to him in the hall at King's Landing during the feast that evening.

"I do, and so do you," Jon says, smirking, and then his eyes grow soft. "She is beautiful, sweet, entirely unsuited to the north."

"She will be betrothed soon," Daenerys says, watching her husband. "To some boorish northerner."

"My mother was a northerner," he replies, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, and she fled from there as soon as she could."

Jon clucks his tongue but he does not disagree.

Those at court may talk of his northern ways - his sporadic brooding, the fierceness he shows on the training fields - but is not Rhaegar a man who broods? Do Targaryens not have fiery blood? She cannot imagine what Jon would have been like if he was raised somewhere other than court, where he ran around its halls with boisterous confidence ever since he was young, his good nature warming him to all he met, his occasional sullen moods making them only more fond. But Sansa has grown up in the north and seems all southron courtesies, so what does Daenerys really know.

"She is wasted there," she remarks.

"I agree," Jon says and Daenerys hides her smile in her cup of wine. He is as smitten as she is. And then she puts down her cup and sighs, "but it is not to be, is it. She must remain a maiden and she will marry soon. We might invite her and her husband to King's Landing but it would not be the same to have some coarse man looming over her shoulder." She watches as Jon's hand clenches around his cup, and her stomach swoops.

She has always found Jon's force of personality, his keen sense of injustice, his sometimes-rash decisions, enticing.

But something like this—

"You look at me as if I have already made up my mind," he says, knowingly.

"You have."

"I might have."

She touches his arm and leans closer. "To steal another northern daughter, not even twenty years after the last. _Jon_."

"Who said anything about _stealing,_ " he says and she can see the curve of his cocksure smile, cannot help but feel her belly tremble. "It would be natural, wouldn't it, for a son of Lyanna to want a northern bride, for my marriage to heal past wounds," he muses.

"But you are already married," Daenerys says, putting on a pout as he turns and kisses her, assuaging any fears that she might be tossed aside - false fears, for she knows the two of them could never be split asunder.

They are in their own little world in the hall, the noise of the other feasters feels a long way away. It has always been thus since they were young, the two of them inseparable. And though others have tried to worm their way between them or beside them, none have come as close as one flame-haired girl has managed in barely a few hours.

"What will the king say?" she asks, as if they have already decided on their action, which she knows they have.

"I will persuade him. I have asked for very little, over the years."

"That is because you have been given everything without asking," she says with a laugh, "a keep of your own, fine clothes, endless entertainments, feasts beyond measure, gold and riches."

"But you agree, that I should marry her, that the three of us should be together-"

"Yes," Daenerys says with a nod. "I know that we have only known her a day but-"

"Yes," Jon agrees. "I know."

That night as he fucks her up against the wall of their bedchamber, the both of them too fevered to make it to their bed, they murmur to each other fantasies of the three of them together, of her soft skin and pretty pink nipples, of how her long legs would feel wrapped around their hips, of the sweetness of her cunt.

 

**

 

On the day that the prince and princess promised they would return, Sansa has left Winterfell just after dawn, creeping past the dozing guards and hurrying into the forest, so eager her heart is racing as she sits now in the same clearing as last time and waits.

The last week has been a trial on her poor heart. Her parents have invited Harrion Karstark to stay and Sansa has done her best to avoid any time spent with him, fearing that she cannot mask her dislike for him - his bushy beard, those furs of his that smell like wet dog, the way he watches her like she is a ripe steak. He has barely said two words to her when they do sit alongside one another and Sansa cannot understand how her mother has raised her to be a lady in all things and then expects her to marry a man like this.

But no matter, she does not have to think of that now, for she can hear the sound of wings beating in the sky and there Goldenwing is, his scales shining in the sun as he drops with a great thud to the ground.

And there is the prince and princess, sliding down the beast's back and strolling over to her.

"My prince, my princess," Sansa says, curtseying.

"None of that, Sansa, are we not friends? Friends do not curtsey," Daenerys says, kissing her on the cheek and making Sansa blush at the soft feel of her lips.

Jon takes her hand and kisses the back of it.

Sansa is so delighted to be in their company again that she fears her smile looks almost crazed.

"Should you like to take a ride on Goldenwing, Sansa? You would not be missed if you spent the whole day with us?"

"I should love to," she says and then bites her lip. Her mother had accepted her excuse last week that she had been taking an early walk in the forest, busy as she was with Sansa's other siblings, and she thinks it will be the same today. Her parents could not imagine that she was doing something wild like riding a dragon anyway, Sansa has always been terrified of breaking rules and has never even been punished before.

"Good," Jon says. "And we have brought you a cloak, for it can be cold in the air for those who do not have the warm blood of Targaryens."

She has noticed that their skin is warm when it touches hers and she squirms a little at the thought of being so close to them as she rides Goldenwing. The cloak Daenerys holds out is the finest piece of clothing Sansa has ever seen, layered velvet and quilted silk in Targaryen colours, with a trim of red fox fur and jeweled buttons down its front. She smiles as she puts it around her shoulders and then flushes as Daenerys helps her with the buttons. The princess is so beautiful, and her hands are nimble and soft.

"You will be seated between us in the saddle, and I promise you that you will be quite safe," Jon says as he leads her by the hand over to the dragon. She is frightened to be so close to the beast, at the way he whips his tail around and snorts, wings creaking as they fold and unfold.

"You will be nice to Sansa, won't you," Daenerys calls out to her dragon. "For she is very dear to us."

The dragon bucks his head, apparently in agreement, and Sansa's heart trembles.

Daenerys climbs up first, showing Sansa where she should place her feet, and Jon climbs up behind Sansa, a hand on her back so that she does not fall.

And then she is in the saddle, high above the ground. Daenerys is in front of her, her backside pressed back into the cradle of Sansa's hips, and Jon is behind Sansa, his firm thighs around the outside of hers, one arm around her waist, and Sansa feels herself heat in something she recognises as desire. Gods, she thinks, how am I to survive several hours pressed between the two of them. She can smell the perfume of their skin, the herbs and oils they have bathed with; she can feel the casual stroke of Jon's thumb on her trembling belly.

Daenerys calls to her dragon and the beast lurches into the sky and Sansa shrieks, a sound echoed by Goldenwing, and she clutches her arms around Daenerys, feels Jon hold her more tightly, and then she is above the forest, high above the only landscape she has ever known and there is Winterfell in the distance, speeding past, as the air rushes around them and they fly east towards the coast.

Sansa finds herself laughing at the thrill and feels Jon's chest rumble behind her as he chuckles. Daenerys reaches back a hand to squeeze Sansa's leg and then urges Goldenwing onwards.

Sansa tries to watch the scenery - the coastline as they journey south and then the great waves of the Shivering Sea as they turn towards Essos - but it is hard when they are moving so fast and her thoughts are stuck on the feeling of the two bodies close to hers.

Sooner than she can imagine, she spies a grand city on the horizon, with canals and bridges and towers and gleaming tiled roofs, and Jon names it as Braavos as Goldenwing makes a wide circle around it and then lands carefully in the middle of a courtyard of a palace on an island on the outskirts of the city.

Jon helps her down from the dragon, after Daenerys nimbly slides down Goldenwing's back and Sansa finds herself reluctant to part from the prince when she has regained her footing on land.

The palace is beautiful, its walls built of sandy-coloured stone, the tiles of its roofs a warm red. There are climbing plants in the courtyard and a colonnaded walkway decorated with fountains and statues of gods and goddesses. As Goldenwing flies away, off to hunt for an Essosi feast, she spins around on the spot drinking in her first experience of a foreign land.

"Some wine now, I think," Jon says as Daenerys takes Sansa's arm and leads her towards the shade of the interior of the palace.

"Is this your palace?" Sansa asks, knowing it for a rude question the moment she says it.

"Not quite," Daenerys says. "But we are good friends with its absent owner, and he lets us use it anytime we wish."

They lead Sansa to a smaller inner courtyard, where the columns are draped with gauzy swathes of fabric and a canopied platform with a velvet mattress laden with silk pillows sits.

She takes a seat, marvelling at the riches around her - the coloured glass lanterns, the jeweled fabrics, the painted statues, the exotic flowers in delicately carved pots, the songbirds singing in silver cages, the rich softness of the mattress she sinks down upon.

Daenerys takes a seat to her right, looking entirely at ease with such comforts, as Jon leaves to find a servant, returning a few moments later with three servants carrying trays of food - ripe southron fruits, cakes and pastries, soft cheeses and olives - and flagons of wine whose spice perfumes the air.

Sansa sighs with pleasure and feels each one of her limbs relax. She is still wearing the cloak - if she has her way she will never take it off, for she likes the way it makes her look like she suits her surroundings, unlike the plain northern gown she wears underneath.

"Here," Jon says, as he sits on her other side and shifts more pillows behind her back to prop her up. "You should not let Daenerys steal all of the pillows like she steals my blankets at night."

Sansa flushes at the vision of the two of them sharing a bed, at the thought of what they might do there together—

"He lies, Sansa, for it is he who steals my blankets."

Jon laughs and pops an olive in his mouth. "Wine, Sansa?"

"Oh, yes please," she says, eagerly taking the cup he holds out.

The wine is rich and strong and she feels it warm her throat and stomach. She has rarely ever drunk wine, ale is what northern tongues are supposed to prefer.

They sit and drink from their cups, grazing from plates heaped with food, and Sansa listens to the birds singing and to the prince and princess flirt with one another, answering their questions, responding to their gentle teases.

"This is one of the happiest days of my life," Sansa blurts out when she is halfway through her second cup of wine.

"Oh, Sansa," Daenerys says, taking her hand and squeezing it gently.

"You must be used to scenes like this, but for a northern girl like myself-" She eats a bite of sweet lemon cake to stop herself from rambling further.

"You do not seem very northern to us, Sansa," the princess says. "Your courtesies and refinement mirror that of those from court. Your beauty-" Daenerys strokes a hand down Sansa's cheek as she feels her eyes flutter.

Jon takes her other hand and Sansa turns to look at him. "Forgive me, my lady, but it seems such a waste that you are to be hidden away forever in the north. A beauty such as yourself would bloom in the south."

Sansa bites her lip and tries not to cry at his sweet words, at the dull ache she feels in her heart. They already know her so well, this prince and princess; they see everything she desires.

"We shall upset her if we keep speaking of what cannot be, Jon," Daenerys chides softly. "Sansa is to be betrothed to a northern son."

"Indeed," Jon says, saying something to Daenerys with his eyes that Sansa cannot understand. "We must find some way of lightening the mood. Hmm," he says, rubbing a hand through his neat beard. Perhaps more wine?" he says with a smirk.

Sansa laughs and feels her body release its tension. "I fear if I have more than two cups, I shall slide straight off Goldenwing and into the sea," she says.

Jon frowns playfully. "Do you think we would let you fall. No, we would hold you tightly," he says, and chucks her under the chin.

"We should play a kissing game," Daenerys says, as if she knows exactly where Sansa's thoughts lie.

Jon clucks his tongue. "My wife has been fond of kissing games since we were quite young, Sansa. Half the court has been kissed by her at one time or another."

" _Jon_ ," Daenerys scolds, throwing a pillow at him so that he laughs. "He exaggerates, Sansa. But tell us, have you ever played such a game at Winterfell?"

Sansa licks her lips, tasting the spice of the wine. "I used to play kissing games with my good friend Jeyne before she married, yes."

"Wonderful," Jon says, leaning over to pick up a silver spoon, "so then you know the rules."

"I am not sure I do," Sansa says, as Daenerys and Jon shift on the mattress so that the three of them are sitting in a circle. She feels warm and woozy and unties her cloak, dropping it behind her, uncaring of how she looks in her gown.

"The rules are this," Jon says, "the person who spins this spoon must kiss whoever it points towards. And then afterwards that person must spin the spoon and kiss whoever it points towards, and so on. Normally it is a game played with more than three but I think we can manage." His eyes are sparkling, and he removes his jerkin, leaving him in a thin silken tunic.

Daenerys is in one of her gauzy gowns, having discarded her cloak the moment they landed, and Sansa has been trying not to stare at her bare shoulders, the shape of her teats through the thin fabric. Now she tries not to stare at the strip of Jon's chest that is bared by his tunic, at his strong forearms.

"I shall start," Jon says, spinning the spoon on the velvet of the mattress. Sansa holds her breath and then is greatly disappointed when the spoon stops pointing towards Daenerys. But her disappointment vanishes when the prince and princess lean towards one another and kiss deeply right in front of Sansa, the sight of it enough to make her want to moan.

Daenerys sits back, her lips damp and pink, and spins the spoon, and when it lands upon Sansa, Sansa trembles.

Daenerys leans towards her, her soft silver hair falling to brush Sansa's neck as the princess kisses her. Daenerys's lips are soft and plush, the little flick of her tongue makes Sansa gasp as she kisses back.

When they part, Sansa can feel that her cheeks are bright red. Daenerys is looking at her hotly, and so is Jon, who watches as she spins the spoon, his mouth curling into a pleased smirk when it stops pointing towards him.

Sansa sits forward on her knees, heart thumping in her chest as Jon puts a hand behind her head carefully, guiding her to kiss him. His lips are firm and full, his tongue swipes across hers as if searching for the taste of his wife, and he bites her bottom lip gently and then kisses the mark of his teeth.

When she sits back again, Sansa is quite flustered, her limbs hot, the place between her thighs damp and fluttering. Has she died and gone to some kind of heaven, she thinks hysterically.

The game continues and Sansa must have kissed the both of them at least a dozen times when it is done and they lay back on the mattress beside one another, giggling breathlessly, their lips bruised, their bodies languid.

"I feel as if I am in some wondrous dream," Sansa sighs, feeling the warmth of the prince and princess to either side. "I wish I might never have to go back to Winterfell, I wish-" she closes her eyes and sighs again.

 

**

 

It is no use plotting to steal away a maiden if you do not know that she also desires you, and thus the kissing game in Braavos. But neither of them expected it to be quite this successful, Daenerys thinks, as they fly Sansa back to Winterfell. If they had stayed in the palace at Braavos but an hour longer, she thinks that they might have ravished Sansa, that they might have found out exactly how far that pink blush went below the neckline of her gown.

Daenerys is glad not to be a man, she thinks with a smirk, remembering the way that Jon had had to excuse himself before Goldenwing arrived, so that he could take himself in hand somewhere else in the palace while Daenerys kept their guest occupied with talk of gowns and embroidery. Women can leave their desire simmering for hours before it needs to be sated, and she cannot wait until they are back in King's Landing and she can ride Jon into their bed, telling him all she wishes to do to Sansa and making him groan like he is wounded.

She is sad to see Sansa walk away from them in the clearing, at the way Sansa's shoulders droop a little at the thought of returning to her home, but Daenerys knows that they will return in only a week, that she and Jon will be more determined than ever to take Sansa away from here permanently.

The next day in King's Landing, Jon prepares himself to meet with Rhaegar, and Daenerys smiles fondly as she sees how seriously he looks at himself in the reflection of their mirror, how he smooths his hair back into a bun, pinning an arrant curl. Rhaegar likes his children, and his court, to be presentable and courteous.

They have asked for a private audience in the royal apartments and as they walk there, Jon clutches her hand tightly.

When it comes to speaking their piece, Jon is as fervent as she has ever seen him, which seems to surprise Rhaegar too, as the king sits and listens to Jon's request to take another wife.

"A northern girl, a Stark," Rhaegar sighs and rubs his chin in the exact same manner that Jon often does. "I would be a hypocrite if I were to admonish you, would I not," he adds ruefully.

Lyanna is not a forbidden topic of interest at court but out of their love for Elia, few ever speak of her. Elia herself has only ever been kind to Jon and it was only when he was an older child that he realised that the tale he had believed, of his father's two wives, was not the happy song he had thought it was, that Rhaegar had hurt Elia and the north when he ran away with Lyanna, that he has spent every year since then paying penance to his first wife, that it was the miraculous birth of three dragons that helped to dampen the last embers of rebellion against the crown.

"Are you sure, my son? And are you sure you wish to share your husband, sister?"

"I am sure," Jon says.

"As am I," Daenerys says, feeling Jon squeeze her hand.

"I shall send a raven to Ned Stark. But he would be well within his rights to refuse his daughter's hand. You must prepare yourself for that."

Daenerys sighs inwardly, thinking that Rhaegar has only ignited Jon's recklessness with these words.

"Might we have your leave to travel to Winterfell once the raven has been sent?" Jon asks.

Rhaegar studies the both of them. "You may. Good luck," he adds and they bow and leave the room but when she glances back at the door she sees Rhaegar looking sorrowful and old, no doubt remembering his second wife and their too-short marriage.

"How fast do ravens fly?" Jon asks when they are back in their own rooms, pacing to and fro on the spot.

Jon had been gifted Summerhall, of which a third has already been rebuilt, when they were married but they have only visited it once, preferring to spend their time at court. Daenerys thinks that if they do marry Sansa, they will make more of a home in Summerhall, that they will both be covetous of her and not wish to share her with anyone else.

"It will reach Winterfell in four days."

"Four days," he groans. "That's too long. What if she is already betrothed by then to someone else."

"And we shall have to wait much longer than four days for the ravens to fly back and forth and for a wedding to be arranged."

"No we won't," Jon says.

"What?"

"My uncle cannot possibly refuse a dragon, can he."

"Jon-"

"We will arrive in Winterfell on the fifth day and demand an answer."

" _Jon_ ," she says, trying not to smile at his rashness, trying to look stern and disapproving.

"Rhaegar said we could travel once the raven had been sent, you heard him."

Daenerys sits down on a couch, and laughs in disbelief. "You do mean to steal her," she says.

"She should be ours, we should be hers," he says earnestly.

"I know, my love," she says, rising to stand before him, to cup his face in her hands, "and she will. With your determination, and my dragon, none may stand in our way."

His frown softens and he huffs a laugh and she kisses him, this wonderful, ridiculous, stubborn, handsome, brave, sweet husband of hers.

 

**

 

Sansa's mother spoke of Harrion Karstark to her again last night, brushing her hair like she used to when she was young. He has returned to his family's keep now, but her parents are obviously keen for a match to be made. Sansa had recklessly told her mother that another man had caught her eye and then refused to name him, and Catelyn had said with a pleased smile that by the moon's end Sansa should let them know, so that a betrothal could be made.

Sansa had cried when her mother left her, weeping into the pillows of her bed. Why have the gods made her fall in love with a prince she cannot have, who is already married to another. And why have they made her fall in love with a princess too, with his wife. That afternoon in Braavos will be but a memory to warm the cold nights to come, she knows that nothing she experiences with any husband will be as pleasurable as that, will feel as good as their lips on hers.

She is in the bath the next morning, wallowing and feeling sorry for herself, when she hears the familiar sound of wings beating outside. She sits up, water sloshing around her, unable to fathom why Goldenwing might be visiting Winterfell itself. Has something happened to its riders? Or is it another dragon which has just landed with a large thud nearby to the shouts and calls of the inhabitants of Winterfell. She gets out of the bath and flings on a clean shift, racing to the window just in time to see Jon and Daenerys stalk into the yard, stopping briefly to bow their heads to Robb and Bran and the other people milling about, who bow deeper to them in turn, before walking inside the keep itself.

Sansa stands and gapes for a moment before frantically getting dressed, calling in the maid to help her with the ties at the back of her favourite gown. She has no time to plait her hair so leaves it loose, her toe tapping impatiently on the floor as she pinches her cheeks and smooths down her gown and then, thanking the maid, she runs out of the room in her slippers, racing down the corridor and then the stairs, crossing the courtyard to make it to the great hall, passing the guards who are supposed to be guarding its doors but who are staring up at Goldenwing who looks to be showing off in the sky above Winterfell.

She bursts into the hall without one thought of waiting outside, and finds Jon and Daenerys standing in front of her father on his throne, her mother standing by his side, clutching his arm and looking fainter than Sansa has ever seen her look.

"Father-" Sansa calls, and the prince and princess turn around and smile at her in greeting.

"Sansa, you will need to wait outside," Ned says. "This is a private audience but I shall explain all afterwards-"

"-I am here to beg for your hand, my lady," Jon says.

Sansa almost swoons, and her heart kicks in her chest. _Marriage_ , he has come here to ask her to be his _wife_. And Daenerys is by his side, looking just as enthused, she must agree with him, she must want Sansa to join the two of them.

Sansa will not leave this hall until her father has agreed, she will not let Jon and Daenerys leave either. She will race after them and climb on Goldenwing and steal herself from the north if need be.

 _Marriage_ , to a prince and princess.

Ned sighs at Jon's words and rubs a hand across his forehead. "Aye. Prince Jaehaerys is come to ask for your hand in marriage, Sansa."

She watches as her father studies Jon, the echo of sadness she can see in Ned's face. What was their first greeting like while she was still getting dressed, what did they say to one another?

"The king has sent a raven," Jon says, "and I have come to hear an answer."

"Yes-" Sansa says. "Yes, I will marry you. There is nothing I wish for more-"

"-Sansa," her father interrupts. A slight smile is tweaking his mouth even as he frowns. "He has come to ask for my answer, not yours."

"Oh, won't you say yes, please, father," she begs, coming closer and dropping to her knees in front of the throne.

"There is no need to kneel, daughter," Ned says, helping her up. "This is all very dramatic and sudden. We should retire to my solar and have some ale as we discuss this, all of us." He looks to his wife whose face is still white as a sheet. "But first, my wife and I must speak alone. Sansa, will you be so kind as to lead the prince and princess to my solar?"

"Of course, father," she says, curtseying and then reaching for Daenerys who holds her hand out to Sansa.

"Apologies for arriving like this," Daenerys says, as they leave the hall, Jon with his hand on Sansa's back, Daenerys's hand in her hand. "My husband can be rash sometimes."

"I could not bear to wait," Jon says, "the thought that you might be betrothed to another before the raven might reach you was too much to endure."

Sansa is trembling, but her footsteps are sure, as she leads them the familiar route to her father's solar, and when she takes a seat opposite them there is silence for a moment, until she laughs delightedly and covers her mouth with her hand.

Jon and Daenerys join her laughter and when Sansa starts to cry too, from all the emotion, they come and sit either side of her, taking a hand each. She turns and kisses Daenerys's cheek and then Jon's, blushing at her boldness as the two of them glance at each other across her.

Her father and mother take half an hour to join them and her mother looks entirely disapproving when Ned tells them that he will give them his blessing, which makes Sansa cry again out of happiness.

Jon and Daenerys both thank her father effusively, which makes Ned look immensely uncomfortable, and then he asks Sansa to speak with him and Catelyn alone.

"I'll not have a daughter of mine be the second wife of some southron philanderer, some perfumed prince," Catelyn spits out, but Sansa does not even feel a twinge of worry, for her father has already agreed and nothing can be done now to prevent her marriage.

"They say they have met with you in the forest," Catelyn continues. "Has he mistreated you? Are you already with child?"

"- _Catelyn_."

"- _Mother_ ," Sansa says. "Of course I am still a maiden, how could you say such a thing." She tries not to blush at the memory of the kissing game and the knowledge that she would have happily lain with the both of them the next time they visited, maidenhead be damned.

"This is not right, Ned. I cannot believe you would agree to this. To send your eldest daughter south in such a manner."

Ned puts a gentle hand on Catelyn's shoulder. "I know it is not what we planned for her but the king has asked us this, when truthfully he asks us very little. And this is what Sansa wishes, we always said that we would listen to her when the time came to choose a husband."

"She has been seduced by their southron finery, their courtesies. Sansa," she says, putting her hands on her shoulders, "whatever Jaehaerys has said, you will have to share him with his first wife, it will not be a proper marriage-"

"His name is Jon," Sansa says, trying not to tilt her chin up combatively.

Catelyn drops her hands and shakes her head in disapproval. "This is wrong. I want it known that I warned against this. Once you leave, Sansa, you cannot ever return. If you are unhappy, you must remain in your husband's house. He is the king's son, it will always be his word against yours."

"Jon is honourable, and kind, and he loves me," Sansa says.

Catelyn purses her mouth. "I suppose we cannot argue with a dragon," she says, when they hear Goldenwing shriek somewhere in the sky nearby.

"Aye," Ned says and huffs a laugh. "Just promise me you will not ride one of those beasts, Sansa."

"I cannot promise that," she says, not wishing to lie outright.

"I thought Arya would be the one to give me white hairs," he says, "that she was the troublesome daughter."

"Sorry, father," Sansa says and means it.

He puts an arm around her and pats her shoulder. "Now," he says, "there is much to do, many ravens to send and hearts of northern sons to break. A wedding to arrange as well." He looks to his wife. "I trust that I can leave that up to you."

Catelyn nods shortly. "They should be married sooner rather than later if this is to go ahead. I'll not have Sansa's virtue questioned. This means of course, that you will not have a proper wedding gown to wear, you realise that, Sansa."

"Mother, I would wed in a sack of flour if it meant I could marry the prince," and the princess, she adds inside her mind.

Her mother only shakes her head and then she says, "you have brought these guests here, Sansa, so now it is your responsiblity to house them."

Gladly, Sansa thinks, hurrying out of the room, but not without pausing just outside to hear her father say, "She looked like Lyanna then, in the jut of her chin, in her stubbornness. Stark daughters and Targaryen sons."

Sansa's brow creases at the pain in her father's voice and she peeks around the door to see her mother holding him to her, stroking a hand down his back.

That is what Sansa wishes for a marriage, she thinks, as she goes to find Jon and Daenerys, to be a comfort to her husband and wife, to help soothe their burdens.

The rest of the day is like some slow-moving dream as she gives the prince and princess a tour of Winterfell, under the curious eyes of all who live there, and then introduces them properly to her siblings.

Robb quickly warms to Jon and the two of them decide to spar in the training yard as a crowd gathers and watches. Jon is quicker on his feet, Robb stronger, but to Sansa's delight it is Jon, the pampered perfumed southroner, who wins, and she cheers loudly while Daenerys laughs beside her.

"I would not have wished you to marry a man who could not protect you," Robb says, wiping his brow as the two of them set their training swords down.

"The dragon was not enough?" Daenerys teases and Sansa watches as her brother flushes slightly.

Robb will make his own match this year, to one of the northern girls who he dances and flirts with at every feast. But none of them, Sansa thinks smugly, are quite as beautiful as Daenerys.

 

The hall is shocked to silence when Ned announces during dinner that Sansa will be wed to Prince Jaehaerys in front of the heart tree tomorrow, but Sansa does not care that some of them look disapproving, she still feels like she is walking on air, like she might float up to the sky with happiness, glancing back and forth between the prince and princess, trying not to imagine what might happen _after_ the wedding itself.

And then she learns from Daenerys that they have brought an ivory silk gown with them for her for the wedding that seamstresses in King's Landing worked on over the last few days, and Sansa thinks she really could die of happiness.

She does have a moment of nervousness, an ache of sadness, when her father gives her his cloak to wear just before the ceremony, at the thought of leaving her parents and her home, her siblings, but it is soon smoothed away by the sight of Jon waiting by the heart tree for her, looking regal and so very handsome in his black and red cloak.

There is to be a midmorning feast after the wedding but no bedding ceremony, for Sansa shall leave on the back of Goldenwing for Summerhall immediately afterwards, where she shall spend her wedding night.

She feels solemn as she says her vows, as she listens to Jon say his, but when he kisses her she cannot help but smile and it makes him smile in turn.

He picks her up then, and carries her to the hall, Daenerys walking by his side. The crowd attending the wedding do not seem to know what to think of a man with two wives, or of a first wife who will happily attend his second wedding and who seems quite delighted that her husband is taking another bride.

If only they knew that the three of them would be sharing the same bed! Sansa hides her delighted laugh behind her winecup.

"What are you laughing about, little wife?" Jon murmurs to her.

Daenerys is sitting to his other side and he has been paying them both the same amount of attention, as if to make certain everyone knows that he cares equally for both wives. Sansa has heard several young men mutter comments about greedy southroners, along with obnoxious jokes about them not being able to handle one wife let alone two.

"Nothing," Sansa says, "I am just happy."

"As am I, Sansa," he says and kisses her.

When the feast turns raucous with wine and dancing, Jon stands up and makes a toast to the Warden of the North, and to Winterfell and the North itself. And then he announces that they must leave now, for the journey to Summerhall will be long.

He carries Sansa again out of the hall, stopping to briefly set her down so that she may say goodbye to her family.

Her mother wishes her well, remarking that she is disappointed that she did not get to help sew her wedding clothes, nor prepare her properly for marriage.

"I know what I said earlier," Catelyn whispers to Sansa as she hugs her, "but if you need us, if you want to leave him, your father and I will do anything to help you."

"Thank you, Mother," Sansa says and hugs her back tightly.

Normally she would be travelling with chests full of belongings, with a retinue, with maidservants too, but that will all have to travel later, for none of those things, or people, can fit on the back of a dragon, she explains again to Jon as he looks at her fondly and helps her take her seat in between the both of them on the back of Goldenwing.

She did not realise that she had drank quite so much wine until the dragon has taken flight and she feels quite dizzy. She rests her head on Daenerys's shoulder as Jon holds his arms around her, and she finds herself drifting into a woozy sleep, not waking again until it is almost dawn the next day, and they have arrived at Summerhall, having flown through the night.

"There you are, little wife, we are home now," Jon says as he and Daenerys help her down from Goldenwing.

Sansa yawns and tries to take a measure of the silhouette of the palace. She knows that only a third of it has been rebuilt since the tragedy but that it is still considered to be one of the most beautiful palaces in Westeros. She has more than enough time to explore later, she thinks, as Jon lifts her again and hurries in through the gates, with Daenerys alongside him, teasing his urgency.

"She is your wife now," she says, "you do not need to carry her everywhere, none shall steal her from you."

"She is not _our_ wife yet until we lay with her," Jon retorts, and Sansa hides her hot face in Jon's shoulder.

Sansa does not even have time to look around the corridors and halls of the palace before she is whisked into the bedchamber and set down on the bed.

She sits up and swipes her hair from her face, gaping at the finery of the room - the tapestries and the giant four poster bed, the silver cups and bowls, the jeweled boxes and the gowns flung over velvet couches and polished seats. And then her attention returns to Jon, who is pouring three cups of wine, and Daenerys, who is removing her own boots and the short cloak she wore over her gown.

"More wine?" Jon asks Sansa.

"Just a few sips. I do not want to fall asleep again," she replies which makes Jon laugh.

"No, we do not want that, do we," Daenerys says, coming to sit beside Sansa on the high bed with its mound of pillows threaded with gold.

Sansa breathes out a shaky breath and twists her fingers together.

"Are you nervous, sweet girl?" Jon asks, kneeling before her and taking her hands.

"Will it make me wanton to say that I am only terribly excited?" she says and Daenerys rests her head fondly on Sansa's shoulder.

"No, it won't," Jon says, kissing the backs of her hands, his soft beard pleasantly tickling the skin. "We are married now, nothing we do together, no desires we might have, could be considered wanton."

He rises and bends towards her, his eyes warm, and she smiles when he kisses her, the movements of his lips teasing and practised. He shifts back and starts to unbutton his jerkin. 

"He likes it when we watch," Daenerys murmurs, stroking a hand around Sansa's waist.

Jon exaggerates his movements, flinging the jerkin behind him to make the two women laugh.

Sansa likes the sound of Daenerys's laugh, and she likes her wide smile even more. She turns and nudges forward, kissing Daenerys, who clutches a hand in Sansa's hair and kisses her back, as Jon makes an approving sound. They part to look at him. He has his tunic removed now and his hands are fumbling at the ties of his breeches.

"I fear that the both of us are now overdressed, Sansa," Daenerys says.

"How terribly impolite of us," Sansa replies, feeling giddy and bold. She brings her hands to the ties of Daenerys's gown as Daenerys does the same to her, and they giggle as they try and undress one another with their arms all tangled about.

"I see that my wives need my assistance," Jon says, and he helps untangle them, pulling off their gowns until they are all three standing in only their smallclothes.

"My favourite thing about the gowns Daenerys favours is the lack of corset," Jon murmurs, stroking a hand down Sansa's side. "What do you think, Sansa?"

She had been shocked when she realised she could not wear her usual corset under the gown they had provided her, but she liked how free she had felt, how soft the fabric was against her skin. Now she stands almost naked under the hot gaze of her husband and wife, her teats shivering with her unsteady breath.

Daenerys cups her teats gently. "You are even more beautiful unclothed," she says, as Jon moves to suck at Sansa's neck, to slide his hands around her waist. "I did not think it possible. She's lovely, isn't she, Jon?"

"Beautiful," he murmurs and then he fits his mouth to one of Sansa's nipples, making her squirm and gasp with the pleasure.

Daenerys sinks to her knees in front of Sansa and peels down her smallclothes with nimble fingers, pressing soft kisses to her hips and thighs. Then she nudges Sansa back so that she falls onto the bed, and Jon crawls up beside her. Jon sucks at her teats and then pauses to glance over at Daenerys who has stripped herself of her own smallclothes and stands there handsome and proud.

"The gods have blessed me with the two most beautiful wives," he says with a groan.

Sansa's eyes rove Daenerys's body, her small high breasts and the silver curls of hair between her thighs. She holds out a hand and Daenerys smiles sweetly and clambers up on the bed on Sansa's other side, kissing her and stroking her tongue with hers, as Jon works his mouth down Sansa's waist and then sucks at her hipbones which makes her jerk and whine. She can feel his smile against her skin as he slides his mouth to the top of her mound, and then he is shouldering her legs apart and Sansa is gripping onto the bedsheets with her fingertips, panting into Daenerys's mouth.

"He has dreamed of supping on your cunt since he first saw you," Daenerys says, pinching Sansa's nipples.

" _Gods_ ," Sansa moans, as Jon kisses her... _cunt_ like he is kissing her mouth, softly, wetly, and then he is licking at the little nub that she discovered some years ago, and then he is sucking at it, his hands holding her thighs apart, and her body is hot and squirming, and sooner than she thought possible she peaks with a shudder and a wail.

She lifts her head to see Jon look up at her with a wicked smirk.

"So?" Daenerys asks.

"She tastes just as sweet as I imagined," he says.

Sansa feels herself flutter again at just his words and lets her head drop back, her thighs still twitching. She feels untethered and reaches for something to hold, finding the warmth of Daenerys beside her. She kisses at Daenerys's shoulders and strokes her hand down her side and then she kisses at her teats, thrilled at the way the other woman moans.

A hand sliding up her leg reminds her of Jon still standing at the bottom of the bed. He has removed his smallclothes now and she blushes at the sight of his manhood.

"I fear the vision of you two together will unman me," he groans, as Sansa slips a hand between Daenerys's thighs.

"I shall have to pleasure Sansa then, while you recover," Daenerys teases, turning her body so that she and Sansa are pressed up against one another.

Jon laughs, his voice deep, but Sansa is quite distracted by the slide of a hot body against hers. She works her hand tentatively over Daenerys's cunt but the other woman's pleased sighs and the familiarity of her body quickly gives her confidence. Jon moves behind Daenerys, slipping his hands between the two women to cup Daenerys's teats and kissing at the back of her neck and Sansa moans herself when she feels Daenerys peak around her fingers.

Daenerys rolls to the other side of Sansa, panting at the ceiling.

Jon smooths a hand across Sansa's belly and she arches her back.

"Do you know how men and women lay together, sweet girl?" he asks her, tilting her head towards him and kissing her.

"Yes," Sansa gasps.

"Good," he says and she feels a hand slide down between her thighs and then fingers, Daenerys's fingers by their slimness, slip inside of her, stretching her, as she moans into Jon's mouth and he rubs his manhood against her thigh.

Gods, how is she to survive tonight, she thinks dazedly, she will surely spin apart with so much pleasure.

"I think she's ready," Daenerys says and she leans over Sansa to kiss Jon, and Sansa watches hotly as their lips smear over one another's, as Daenerys bites at Jon's jaw before she falls back.

Jon settles himself between Sansa's thighs and pulls her legs around his hips. "Are you ready, little wife?" he asks.

"Yes," Sansa says, clutching one hand on his back and reaching the other for Daenerys's hand. "Yes."

"Tell me if it hurts and we will stop," he says, as he nudges himself into place and then he is entering her and she is moaning, her breath shuddering.

"Gods, Sansa," he gasps, "your _cunt_ -"

His hips move smoothly against hers as she widens her legs and whines.

"He feels good inside, hot and hard, doesn't he?" Daenerys asks and Sansa can only nod, her eyes screwed shut. Daenerys tugs Sansa's lip from her teeth and kisses her softly as Jon continues to thrust, his grunts making Sansa feel crazed with desire.

Daenerys slides a hand over Sansa's belly. "Will you spill in her, Jon, make a babe tonight?" she asks and Jon replies with a groan as Sansa peaks at her words, and then his hips are jerking and he stills, muffling his noises in Sansa's shoulder.

"Will you have the stamina to make two babes tonight, husband?" Daenerys asks a moment later and Sansa giggles at the tickle of Jon moaning again, his hips twitching.

"My first wife is a witch, Sansa," he says, propping himself up on his hands and moving himself in between her and Daenerys. "You see how she teases me?"

"You love it," Daenerys says, and Sansa bites her lip again as she sees Daenerys move her hand to touch Jon's manhood. She and Daenerys share a hot glance and Sansa twists herself to press her teats against his chest.

"Are you well, little wife?" he asks, turning to look at her fondly.

"I am." She rubs a hand over the sparse hairs of his chest. Daenerys is still working her own hand and Jon's breath is quickening. "Why do you call me little wife when Daenerys is shorter than me, when I am only a little shorter than you myself?" she asks curiously.

"Because, little wife," Jon groans, "Daenerys is too fearsome to be called little and besides, she would only slap me if I did."

"I would not!" Daenerys says. "I would just tell you off."

Sansa laughs.

"I don't have to call you that," Jon says. "I can call you something else if you like. Wife, sweetling, princess, sweet girl," he croons, curving his arm around Sansa's back and she ducks her blushing face to hide in chest, smiling so wide her cheeks hurt.

 

"Do you know," Jon murmurs later, when they are lying in a sated pile of limbs, sharing a plate of ripe fruits and chasing the taste from each other's mouths, "I don't think we were supposed to lay with you before your second wedding in the sept at King's Landing."

Sansa has forgotten all about the wedding she is supposed to have in a few weeks time, her presentation to court, the extravagant feast that has been promised. She has dreamed of seeing King's Landing all her life but finds herself quite content to remain at Summerhall, or perhaps this very bed, forever now.

"Will you forgive us for stealing your virtue?" he asks, as Daenerys laughs delightedly.

"I will forgive you, if you give me many babes," Sansa teases, finding it hard to remember how shy she had been at the beginning of the night.

"I will do my very best," he says solemnly, and then shifts to put his mouth at her cunt.

"I don't think that's the way babes are made, Jon," Daenerys says as Sansa starts to moan.

"Well we won't know until we try, will we," Jon murmurs and Sansa laughs and arches her back, sending a very heartfelt prayer to the gods for bringing a prince and princess north on a dragon one day, like the beginning of some wondrous song all of her own.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> *handwaves lots of plot holes, and the exact speed of dragonflight, and the fact that the north is going to bear an even larger grudge now* 
> 
> please comment, I'd love to hear what people think! :)
> 
> my tumblr: [framboise-fics](http://framboise-fics.tumblr.com)
> 
> and there's a rebloggable photocollage [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/172447845302/sansa-is-supposed-to-be-betrothed-to-the-heir-of)


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